


That was so not how I thought this was gonna go down

by Mullsandmutts



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gay Porn Hard, M/M, Miscommunication, Stupid Boys, declarations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mullsandmutts/pseuds/Mullsandmutts
Summary: Patrick and Jonny fight in the locker room after Game Three.  Jonny starts to murder dishes in his hotel room while Patrick balances the fine line between getting Jonny to murder him and getting him out of his head.  Apologies are hard.  But making up is so much better.





	That was so not how I thought this was gonna go down

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to FourFreedoms for the challenge! Here's hoping the boys drag out a victory and make us do this glorious fun all over again! 
> 
> Let's go Hawks!!!!!!

Patrick stands in front of the large windows of his hotel room, watching as the rain pours over the Nashville skyline below. It seems fitting, he thinks humorlessly, that the sky in their day off would be threatening, gloomy, and torrential. It matches the stormy ball of emotion in his chest. 

He glimpses over his shoulder at the door that adjoins his room to Jonny's. The door that had been firmly shut since they arrived back at the hotel after Game Three last night, pulled shut with a resounding slam by the occupant on the other side. 

Patrick sighs wearily and for probably the thousandth time today as he rests his forehead against the cool glass. Q had issued the edict that they all stay away from the game and each other for twenty-four hours. But Patrick also knows that he and Jonny would get special dispensation to violate that edict should they determine it appropriate. Jonny had clearly meant to honor it but Patrick knows there will be a reckoning of sorts at some point today. Patrick will be opening that door, probably pretty soon, and both Q and Jonny can deal. 

Patrick doesn't have to wait long. A loud crash on the other side of the door causes him to flinch and cock his head, listening carefully. He is rewarded with another crash and two thumps. 

He takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his hair and then slowly down his cheeks, scratching at the playoff beard that hasn't yet had a chance to really get going. And might not if his team, and especially himself, don't get themselves together. Another loud crash forces him to shake his shoulders and arms out. Showtime. 

He walks over to the door and pulls it open, somewhat shocked that Jonny hadn't gone all out and locked it in his spiteful, pissy isolation. Patrick steps through and stops to lean against the frame. 

Jonny is in a white t-shirt and shorts, a large hotel towel spread out with some couch cushions on the floor in what is clearly some kind of makeshift meditation station, although the occupant is up and across the room, pitching hotel glasses and mugs if the shattered glass and disarray along the far wall is any indication. 

Jonny's back is to Patrick and his shoulders are heaving as he pants, a coffee mug dangling from one hand, clearly meant to be the next projectile. 

"New meditation technique there, Taze?" Patrick drawls. He knows every chapter in the Jonathan Toews Handbook and this will either end up with a terse order to get the fuck out, OR ... said mug being pitched at Patrick's own head. Patrick is an agile little fuck. He will be able to deal with either eventuality. 

"Q said to stay away," Jonny doesn't turn around but Patrick can hear the way his teeth are gritted and notes the way Jonny clenches the mug tighter. Patrick is surprised to realize that Jonny might actually turn and fire that thing in his direction after all, but he forces himself to stay still in his position of casual lean against the frame. 

"Q ain't the boss of me," Patrick shrugs. Technically he is, obviously, but Patrick has work to do here and Q won't question his methods. Probably. 

"Get out," Jonny orders, back still to Patrick. 

"Yeah, no," Patrick snorts and stays still. There was a time that rookies across the league probably would have quaked in their boots at Jonny's tone. There is only one thing about Jonny that scares Patrick and it sure as hell isn't his barking. 

"I don't want to see ... I want to be alone," Jonny corrects himself, still refusing to turn. 

"You have been," Patrick replied. "It's one o'clock. I've let you dwell in here to catch up on sleep, do your yoga, meditate, and take your bullshit supplements. And when you decide to do your best Arrieta impression and take it out on the dishes, that means no more alone time for you."

"I'll handle myself," Jonny spits out. "Why don't you just worry about your own shit." 

"And now we've come full circle ..." Patrick's sarcasm is subtle, but clear. Their shouting match in the locker room last night ended with similar words. 

"I swear to God, Patrick ..." Jonny starts and Patrick interrupts him. 

"You don't believe in stuff like God these days, remember?" Patrick sneers, pushing the buttons he is fully aware are dangerous to push. Patrick needs to push Jonny far enough that he will get pissed off and then relax (yeah, Jonny's a complicated monkey), but not so far that he gives up and into to stony silence. It's a delicate balance and one that Patrick has navigated successfully through the years. Patrick is, in fact, the only one who has. 

"You," Jonny says tightly after a long moment, "are really, really taking this somewhere you don't want it to go."

"Son, I know exactly where I want this to go," Patrick replies pointedly. "And I know exactly how to get it there."

Jonny's back is still too him but Patrick can see the slight lessening of the grip on the mug, an infinitesimal smoothing of the knotted tension at the shoulders. 

"So you want to question my ability alone instead of in front of everyone in the locker room now?" Jonny asks, voice thick with accusation. 

Patrick's stomach drops a little. Yeah, maybe in hindsight, screaming at Jonny in the locker room after the media left wasn't his best laid plan. Even experts blow it sometimes 

"I don't want to fight at all, Jon," Patrick answers honestly. 

Jonny barks out a quick humorless laugh. After a long moment of that echoing through the room, Jonny exhales heavily. Patrick watches as the tension seems to ease out of his strong back, breathing finally calmed and the dangerous potential for flying cutlery appearing to be over. Patrick won't even begin to guess which of his words have had the desired effect. He's just happy with the result. 

Jonny looks down at the hand holding the mug and shakes his head, tossing it onto the cushioned desk chair next to where he's standing. Patrick can't help but notice how tall and lean he looks shadowed against the rain-streaked windows. 

Patrick doesn't move from his lazy lean but inwardly his muscles clench as Jonny turns around because Patrick's eyes are immediately drawn to the obvious blood dripping down Jonny's shin from an ugly gash. 

"Did that snake oil salesman tell you to take up leeches now?" Patrick's jaw is clenched as he gestures to Jonny's shin, snarking instead of giving into the panic that is making his stomach twist. 

"Fuck you," is Jonny's super original reply. 

Patrick shakes his head, bites his tongue, and quietly walks into Jonny's en-suite to grab his shaving bag and a wash cloth. Jonny stays statue-still in the same place, watching as Patrick comes back out and sits down on the bed to start to pull items out of the bag silently. 

"Come here," Patrick orders as he looks down into the bag and assembles a pile of band aids, ointment, and alcohol swabs. 

Jonny stubbornly stands in place. Patrick doesn't change the cast down position of his head but lets his eyes slowly drift up to Jonny's. 

"I said come here," Patrick says in a low voice. "And I won't repeat myself. The last thing we need is for you to damage your body, you fucking moron, so either you let me look at it and clean it up or I can call Doc and tell him you've taken up kneeling on glass for self-torture. And that will be a fun conversation for you to have. Your call there, big guy."

Patrick stays still but keeps the eye contact, challenge hot and clear. He isn't fucking around. Jonny can’t know the way panic is clutching at Patrick's throat at the fear of Jonny being injured. 

"Never knew you to be such a narc," Jonny says prissily but starts to walk to Patrick. 

"Yeah, well I wish I could say I have never know you to be so stupid about your own body," Patrick replies pointedly "but we both know there's a lot of precedent."

Jonny jerks to a stop, midway across the room. 

"You got something to say, then say it," Jonny growls.

"Do I need to ask you if you're hiding an injury, Tazer?" Patrick doesn't think that is what is going on here, but he sure as hell isn't going to pretend it hasn't crossed his mind. 

"You think I would do that to the team again?" Jonny's teeth are gritted but there is actually some hurt in his eyes. 

"If I thought that," Patrick says calmly and never breaking eye contact, "then this conversation would be going way differently. I trust you, dumbass, but I think you would run over your own brother's face with a lawn mower if it would get us scoring right now. So yeah, I have to acknowledge that there is a slight possibility that you would hide something if you felt needed to. So I repeat, do I need to ask you that question? I mean," he gestures at Jonny's shin, "current wound aside."

"Mowing over David's ugly face is probably the least I would do," Jonny admits grumpily, fight slowly draining out of him. His eyes are intense and dark as he stares at Patrick. "But no, I am not hiding injury."

"Fine," Patrick nods once, accepting Jonny at his word. "Then get over here so I can play FloJo Nightengale."

"You know that's not a thing, right?" Jonny rolls his eyes and stands in front of Patrick's knees. "It's Florence. She was the famous nurse. FloJo was ... someone else."

"Who was FloJo, Jon?" Patrick feigns ignorance as he reaches up and takes the lamp shade off the lamp so that it will be brighter, setting the lamp down on the floor near Jonny's shin. 

"You know who she was," Jonny crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm not playing that game with you."

"Greatest AMERICAN female runner, is that what you wanted to say?" Patrick grins as he wraps the medicine supplies into the wash cloth next to him and drops to his knees in front of Jonny so that he can get up close on the wound. 

"No I wasn't going to say ..." Jonny cuts himself off with a strangled noise. Patrick looks up to see Jonny staring down at where Patrick kneeled before him, swallowing convulsively, eyes almost black. 

If Patrick didn't know better -- and believe him, he does -- that would almost look like ... desire. On Jonny's face. For Patrick on his knees. Patrick shakes his head to clear his thoughts. 

"So anyway," Patrick flushes and drops his eyes back to Jonny's shin. He is relieved to see that it's nothing major, just kind of an ugly gash. 

"So," Jonny clears his throat above him. "What's, uh, what's the verdict, Doc?"

"My sisters have done worse shaving their legs, you big baby," Patrick retorts, regaining composure. 

"Pretty sure I wasn't complaining about it," Jonny huffs in offended disgruntlement. 

"Whatever, now stand still," Patrick orders and starts dabbing at the mostly congealed blood with the alcohol swabs. 

"Wasn't moving," Jonny mutters under his breath and Patrick bites back a grin. 

"You are ten kinds of Captain Contrary today, aren't you?" Patrick murmurs as he focuses on the task at hand, pouring a little hydrogen peroxide onto the wound and catching the majority with the washcloth underneath it. A big stream trickles down Jonny's long leg and drips into the carpet beneath his bare foot. 

"Smooth," Jonny snorts and Patrick ignores him to try to dab at the area around the overly damp wound without touching the actual wound. He knows there's no way a band aid will stick if the area is still damp. When that doesn't seem to be drying it, he throws caution and hygiene to the wind and leans close to gently blow on Jonny's leg. 

Patrick can hear the gasp that Jonny makes when he does it and shoots a glance up to catch Jonny staring at him with that same look, maybe even more intense now. 

"Did I hurt you?" Patrick asks, genuinely concerned. Jonny takes a deep breath and it seems a little shaky. "Do you want to sit on the bed while I do this?"

"No!" Jonny strangles out. "I mean, no, it's fine. Just hurry up." Patrick rolls his eyes. 

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Patrick mutters and fans at the area with his hands to dry it more quickly. There is a long quiet moment with nothing more than the sound of the rain and wind rattling against the window. 

"Hey, Pat," Jonny says in a quiet tone, breaking the silence. "I'm sorry."

"I'm just fucking around, man," Patrick snorts, focused on his fanning. 

"No, I mean," Jonny sighs. "I mean, yeah, thanks for this. But, I mean, I'm sorry about last night." Patrick doesn't have to look up to know that Jonny's giant brown doe eyes are earnest through cheeks pinkened with embarrassment. 

"Oh," Patrick stops mid-fan and blinks for a second, staring at his hands. His own cheeks are probably sharing the same pink. 

"I shouldn't have said that you've been puck selfish and that your passes have been shit," Jonny says quietly and Patrick's cheeks pink a bit more. 

"But they have been shit, you were right," Patrick answers, still looking down and working with the lid of the antibiotic cream so that he can avoid Jonny's eyes. 

"They haven't," Jonny says emphatically. "At least no more than anyone else's. That was unfair of me to say. Not to mention inaccurate."

"I can do better," Patrick says firmly. "We both know it. And right now is the time for it to be better. For me to be better. That's what my job is. Score or make the score happen." Patrick sighs wearily. He does know his role. And he knows what's at stake. And it's been so fucking miserable to not be able to generate much offense. Fuck, to not even get out of the zone. 

"We can all do better," Jonny says in a sad tone. "But at least you're out there double-shifting and have a point in one of our glorious two fucking goals." Jonny's voice turns bitter. 

"So do you, stupid," Patrick doesn't tolerate self-abuse from Jonny very well. 

The room is quiet as Patrick uses a q-tip to gently apply the antibiotic ointment to the wound. He's careful to get it only where it needs to go, still letting the skin around it air dry for better band aid adhesion. He puts the lid back on the cream and sits back on his haunches, staring down at Jonny's long gross skate-deformed toes, picking at his own ravaged cuticles for a moment before manning up. Jonny extended the proverbial olive branch. Now it's his turn. 

"Look," Patrick scratches at the back of his neck with one hand and slowly fans the ointment and wound area with the other. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry too. For what I said. For making it seem like you've lost your hunger or don't even care anymore. That was a dick move and I'm sorry."

"Do you think that though?" Jonny asks softly. "I mean, I know everyone else thinks so but is that how you really feel?" 

Patrick won't be flippant about the answer. He needs to think it through carefully. He is not unaware of the power and importance he has in Jonny's life. Jonny may have always found reasons to fight him in their early years but he still always sought Patrick's opinion on things that were important. And Patrick has learned that Jonny only asks him questions that he really cares about the answer. 

"Are you as crazy psychotic intense as you were in our early days?" Patrick continues to fan at Jonny's shin, almost subconscious now. "No. Will losses spin you into depressions so deep that the core draw straws to take suicide-watch shifts? No. But does that mean you've lost your desire to win and the drive to work insanely hard to make it happen? Hell no." Patrick looks up and purposely meets Jonny's eyes now. "And anyone who says otherwise is a dumbass who doesn't know a hockey stick from hand saw and doesn't deserve to be breathing the same air space as you."

Jonny looks down at Patrick, meets his eyes with slow blinks and an unreadable expression. But if Patrick had to guess, based on the way Jonny's throat is working, he is a bit overwhelmed. 

"But, Jonny," Patrick continues, lets his eyes drop down to peel the packaging away from the band aid. "It doesn't matter what I or anyone else think. It's about what you believe about yourself. So the question is do you think you aren't hungry or invested in the outcome anymore? Because that's the only opinion that matters. Yours."

Patrick reaches down and gently smooths the band aid over Jonny's skin, marveling at the way even that through a long winter with no real sun, Patrick's skin is so much more pale, the contrast stark against Jonny's brown. Patrick continues to smooth it in slow repeated loops while he lets Jonny process his answer. 

After a moment, Patrick gathers up the medical items and trash and sets it on the end table. He picks up the lamp and hauls himself to his feet, knees popping and feet feeling all prickly where they were almost asleep. He purposely avoids Jonny's eyes as he methodically puts the lamp shade back on the lamp, dumps the trash into the small trash can on the other side of the nightstand, and zips up Jonny's bag. 

Jonny hasn't moved and Patrick knows that he is seriously pondering Patrick's question. Patrick's stomach twists a little as he waits for the response, not sure he wants to hear it after all. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his joggers and stares down at Jonny's feet, still close enough to feel the heat rolling off his large frame. 

"I don't know if there has ever been a time," Jonny says finally, voice very soft. "That I have been hungrier or more invested in the outcome." Patrick lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and smiles softly. 

"Well then," he cocks his head to look up at Jonny as he smiles. "That's that."

Patrick starts to turn to walk into the bathroom but stops when Jonny's hand reaches out to grab his forearm, hand gently squeezing down. Patrick looks up and sees Jonny's brow furrowed. 

"I wasn't done," Jonny says, stare intense and focused on Patrick's face. Patrick blinks. 

"Oh shit," Patrick flashes a sheepish grin. "Sorry, man. You have the floor." He makes an exaggerated flourish and leans back against the nightstand. Jonny doesn't smile back. If anything, the brow furrows more, causing Patrick to feel a spike of insecurity and worry. 

"Pat," Jonny starts and then stops, hand now rubbing slow circles on Patrick's wrist where he's still holding on. Patrick looks up questioningly into Jonny's face. They're handsy dudes but they don't generally do something so ... intimate. Jonny just stares down at him, clearly warring at saying something.

“If this is where you tell me you’ve been lying about an injury,” Patrick says quite seriously. “I will punch you in the junk and call your mother.” 

Jonny sighs long-sufferingly and rolls his eyes.  
“Did you read a book about how to ruin a moment or something, because your kind of exceptional at it,” Jonny says dryly. 

“Oh, like you’re …. Wait. What?” Patrick blinks when his ears catch up with his brain. “That was supposed to be a ‘moment’ or something?” Jonny glares at him.

“Was being the key word there, idiot,” Jonny huffs, hand still around Patrick’s wrist. Patrick slowly drops his gaze to where their hands are joined. He feels like he is missing a giant chunk of valuable information.

“This might be one of those situations,” Patrick’s sarcasm is thick, despite his confusion, “where you actually have to verbalize the shit going on inside your head rather than glaring at me until I understand you by osmosis or something.”

Jonny looks to the heavens as if he is the one with the right to count to ten and bemoan the stupidity of the person standing next to him.

“When I said I’ve never been hungrier or more invested in the outcome,” Jonny says slowly with the kind of exaggerated patience that one might explain use with a person of severe low intelligence. Which he probably thinks Patrick is. “What exactly did you think I was talking about there, dumbass?”

“Uh,” Patrick stares at him. “Hockey, obviously.” Jonny closes his eye and uses his free hand to rub the bridge of his nose.

“How can someone who watches Lifetime movies and reads teenage romance be this oblivious?” Jonny seems to ask himself.

“Hey, fuck you,” Patrick is still confused as shit but he knows when Jonny’s insulting him. “You watch them too sometimes.”

“When you make me,” Jonny says pointedly, as if that is the magic key to the entire conversation.

“Yeah,” Patrick says dumbly. “How else would I know what you watch? It’s not like I’m with you if you decide to watch them at home and I’m not around.”

“Let’s try a different route here,” Jonny might actually be gritting his teeth. “Can you, in any way, conceive another human on this planet for whom I would tolerate such ridiculous television watching options?” And just as Patrick takes in a deep breath, Jonny interrupts. “And don’t say anything about my mother.” Patrick’s jaw snaps shut.

“Uh, maybe?” Patrick scratches the back of his head with his free hand, still aware of the way Jonny’s hand is burning into his skin.

“No,” Jonny says seriously. “The answer is no.”  
“Okay so ….?” Patrick feels like he’s in that fishing game at the fair where you have the ring on the end of the string and you get super close again and again to landing it on the top of the bottle but it slides away every time without catching, like there’s something right here that he’s supposed to be seeing but it’s eluding him.

“Oh my God,” Jonny groans. “How is it that people think I’m the dumb one?”

“Because you are,” Patrick says automatically, flummoxed at how this conversation turned from him pushing Jonny out of his head to suddenly making Patrick feel like he’s missed something important. If he didn’t know better, it would almost seem like Jonny was trying to say that he was into Patrick or some …..

“Holy Shit!” Patrick gasps and practically slides off the nightstand where he’s standing.

“Finally,” Jonny mutters as Patrick gapes at him, mouth working like a fish gasping on a shore.

“Are you saying? Do you mean?” Patrick stutters. “No fucking way. Just. No fucking way.”

“Patrick,” Jonny snaps his fingers and Patrick’s eyes fly to his face at the tone. “Stick with me here.”

“You dirty rotten bastard,” Patrick hisses out. “Are you trying to tell me …..” he lowers his voice hushed whisper and looks side to side as if Chris Kuc is standing right next to them with a microphone. “There’s no way you’re saying ….. that.”

“Ten years of media and articulation training, ladies and gentlemen,” Jonny mocks but Patrick can see the way his cheeks are flushed and now that he’s over the initial shock of it, Patrick is ready to start calling Jonny on his shit.

“And in the entirety of that ten years,” Patrick says with a raised eyebrow, “Tell me four ways that you have given me any kind of indication that you, you might….” He looks around again furtively. “You might be into me.” 

Jonny’s cheeks are pink but he has the audacity to sigh and roll his eyes again.

“I don’t know, Patrick,” Jonny drawls. “You watch our interviews. How about every time I’ve ever looked at you?”

“What?” Patrick is dumbfounded.

“Two,” Jonny keeps rubbing circles in Patrick’s wrist as he lifts their joined arms between them.

“Well it’s a little weird but …” Patrick concedes.

“Three,” Jonny gestures at the room around them as if it is the universally accepted code that means we-live-in-each-other’s-pockets-and-no-one-ever-questions-why-we-are-usually-lost-in-another-world-when-we-are-together. And the sad part, is that Patrick actually does understand that gesture. Clicking is happening in his brain now.

“But we’ve always been like that,” Patrick says weakly, absolutely bewildered at how this situation spun from his control. Because it had. Like a fucking tornado.

“Because four, you giant dimwitted dufus,” Jonny yanks Patrick forward until Patrick has to stumble and grab onto the t-shirt covering Jonny’s pecs to keep from falling, bodies all lined up and slotted in the world’s weirdest and yet kind of most perfect jigsaw puzzle.

“Dimwit and dufus are probably redundant,” Patrick says nonsensically. 

“Of for fucks sake ….” Jonny has apparently had enough because he deposits his free hand at the back of Patrick’s neck and yanks him forward for a mind-blowing kiss. Patrick wouldn’t even call it a kiss. It’s a devouring, an inexplicable melding of lighting and heat and thunder across a chasm that Patrick can’t honestly say he didn’t think about sometimes but never for a moment believed would come to fruition. All he can think as Jonny slides his tongue across Patrick’s lower lip is the way he used to play with two magnets as a kid and hover them closer and closer together until opposites attracted and they slammed together to make an unbreakable bond. Well, he thinks that until Jonny bites down. Pretty much his brain whites out after that.

Patrick hears a whine and he prays it’s not his own as he pushes closer and closer to Jonny, trying to meld himself into that heat and slide and electricity as his brain dumbly repeats over and over this is Jonny this is Jonny this is Jonny. They are two grown virile men who have been locked away from any kind of female companionship for weeks (or maybe male? Patrick’s mind is blown here) so it’s hardly surprising that things go from zero to sixty right quick and Patrick squirms enough that Jonny takes the hint and finally lets go of his wrist only to reach behind, clap a giant hand over Patrick’s pert ass, and pull them flush together.

“Fuck me,” Patrick yanks his mouth away for a moment to catch his breath and gasps. He didn’t mean it like THAT but hell, he’s probably not opposed. Jonny jerks back as if burned and Patrick thinks he has done something wrong and suddenly feels like throwing up. But when he looks into Jonny’s face he sees that same crinkle-cheeked fond exasperation as always. No fear to be found.

“I am not,” Jonny grits out, “Going to have the first time I lay you out and take you apart be in a hotel in the current shithole of the universe. I don’t want every time we think about our first time to bring back memories of this shitty city and our shit-tastic play.”

“That’s a lot of shit,” Patrick breathes out, still trying to bring his brain back online. Jonny just lets a slow grin spread across his cheeks, as if he is so fucking fond of Patrick that he can’t even help himself. Patrick’s brain is whirring here, this moment so far from anything he would have anticipated about this day.

“Well you’re full of it so …..” Jonny chirps and Patrick narrows his eyes. He swings back suddenly and slugs Jonny in the bicep hard enough to elicit an ow from both of them.  
“I have so many questions right now,” Patrick starts but Jonny legit and without having the decency to be even a little ashamed at the gesture, reaches up and places a finger across Patrick’s mouth to quiet him. Patrick guesses he should be glad it’s not his whole hand because that would probably be more Jonny’s speed.

“Well, save them because we don’t have time to get into it right now,” Jonny says almost sadly, face pinching a little as he remembers what they are actually there for, what they need to accomplish in order to leave this city with a fighting chance to continue their season.

“But …” Patrick starts and Jonny shakes his head. Patrick huffs, “Seriously? You’re going to start this and then leave it there???” Jonny shrugs. Patrick wants to hit him again but his hands are needed for the game tomorrow and he just spent ten minutes caring for a tiny cut on Jonny’s legs, he certainly doesn’t want to cause the idiot to bruise or anything before the game tomorrow.

“I promise,” Jonny says softly, the sweetest smile smoothing over his face and traveling up to his eyes. “This isn’t over.” The fact that Jonny is talking about 1) whatever this is between them, 2) the requisite discussion of whatever this is between them, and most importantly, 3) their playoffs makes Patrick smile the same way back.

“It sure as hell isn’t,” Patrick replies with a cocky grin. Luckily, Jonny understands him just as well.


End file.
